City

Here is a city – press it to your tongue
Like rib is held to lung. Be careful,
It is only small, part two lips and inside
Your ruby mouth feel a slight rotation,
The spin of a crooked little planet.

And from within, the surge of many voices
Clasped like precious stones – listen,
They grind against your tongue to a fine
Dust. Breathe deeply, let it turn in the air.

We speak words that plume upwards in
Smoke, fall as a light rain. I miss the city,
Bodies that ghost and heave at night,
Drawn like blood to their own dissolution.

I am the pressing of lips
I am a fine dust
I am turned deep blue
I am ready to sing